They tell me I am beautiful they praise my silken hair,
My little feet that silently slip on from stair to stair;
They praise my pretty trustful face and innocent grey eye;
Fond hands caress me oftentimes, yet would that I might die!
Why was I born to be abhorred of man and bird and beast?
The bullfinch marks me stealing by, and straight his song hath ceased;
The shrewmouse eyes me shudderingly, then flees; and worse than that,
The house dog he flees after me - why was I born a cat?
(I don't really believe all cats feel that way, or at last I hope not).
